It Becomes Necessary
by Beth Green
Summary: *COMPLETE* Greg angst. More of Greg's point of view post-"Playing with Fire."
1. Default Chapter

This follows my previous CSI story, "When in the Course of Human Events."  It is not necessary to read that story before reading this one, but you might like to.  "It Becomes Necessary" is a continuation of Greg's point of view post-ep "Playing With Fire," on into the season finale.

Thanks to Illman, Tabbi, and Heavenblast for the reviews of the first story.  It helped me to complete this one sooner than I otherwise would have.

*****

It Becomes Necessary

by Beth Green

I just lied to my boss.  If you knew Gil Grissom, you'd know how potentially suicidal doing something like that could be.  However, the alternative would have been worse.  All I can tell you is that it was a reflex action, done purely out of a desperate need to cover my own ass.

Ever since my first day back on the job, otherwise known as riding the proverbial horse that threw me, I've been trying not to let anyone realize what a total basket case I am.  At least, that's been my intention.  One person already knows.  She found out before I'd ever made it to the lab.

Based on the nightmares I've been having, I knew that it was going to be tough going back to work after being literally blown up on the job.  I wasn't so sure  that I'd be able to return at all.  Those first few days after the accident, if I even tried to visualize myself simply standing in the lab the memories would quickly overwhelm me.  Even now, just thinking about what happened causes my mind to relive the accident in all of its terrifying, three-D, technicolor glory.  

As always, the recollection starts with the nudge from my subconscious that something was not quite right.  I ignored it at first.  Why not?  There I was, doing my usual brilliantly efficient work in the lab.  I was the king of my domain, familiar with every nook and cranny of all that I surveyed.  Of course, that's all the more reason why I should have picked up on the anomaly sooner than I did.  Something was out of place.  Eventually it became obvious enough to draw my attention away from the test that I was in the middle of.  A smell made its way to my nose, hinting at something that shouldn't be there.  What the hell was it?  Some sort of burning plastic?  I turned toward the fume hood in an attempt to locate the source.  Before I could complete my turn I felt an incredible rush of heat and pressure accompanied by a blinding flash of light.  Following the laws of physics, the sound seemed to come after I'd already been lifted off my feet by the incredible force of the explosion.  I didn't have any time to think before I felt myself hit the window and continue on through it.  Gravity finally caught up with me and I rolled to a stop in the hallway outside the remains of what had been the lab.

I was partially deaf, my ears ringing from the concussion of the blast, partially blinded from the intensity of the light.  I was blessedly numb from shock, and feeling no pain.  I felt myself drifting mentally.  Was this what dying felt like?  I thought that it might be.

The blissfully blessed numbness did not last.  On the ambulance ride into the hospital, my brain recovered enough to let through the pain messages that my injured body had been trying to send on.  I descended into Hell.

It's taken me a while to climb back out of the pit I'd been thrown into.  I've still got a ways to go.  Unfortunately, my physical recovery seems to be progressing better than my mental recovery.  I came this close to not making it back to the lab, ever.  Thank God for Catherine.

I knew that my first day back was going to be the worst day.  I'd been dreading it ever since the accident.  Hell, all it took was thinking about the lab and I'd start to shake like a junkie going through withdrawal.

Once the doctor had signed my return to work order, I did my best to psych myself up.  "C'mon, Greg, it was a one-in-a-million chance that everything would fall together in precisely such a way needed for an explosion to occur.  Any bookmaker in town would take the bet on it ever happening again.  This was just payback time for some cosmically bad karma in a previous life or something.  This shouldn't have anything to do with whether or not you can do your job.  You know you can do it.  Not only can you do it, you can do it better than anybody else out there."  

I thought that I'd done a pretty good job of convincing myself that everything was going to be all right.  The minute that I pulled into the parking lot, I knew that my personal pep talk hadn't worked.  I could feel myself beginning to hyperventilate and I began to sweat at the mere thought of entering the building.  My hands felt suddenly cold, my brain reluctant to send the signal for my fingers to let go of the steering wheel.  I'd been afraid that something like this might happen, so I'd made sure I'd shown up a good hour before any of my shift-mates were scheduled to arrive.  

I began talking to myself.  "C'mon, Greg, don't do this to yourself.  Take a breath, a deep one, and hold it a minute.  That's good.  Okay, now, let it out.  And again."  I don't know how many times I repeated my little self-meditation, but eventually I managed to get my hands to release their death-grip on the steering wheel.  I congratulated myself.  "Okay, good, Greg.  That's progress.  Now, don't think about the end result of what you're doing.  Let's take it step by step."

I began to move as I directed myself.  "First, get out of the car."  Accomplishing that action earned myself another compliment.  "Good.  Now, let's walk.  Put one foot in front of the other, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot, and on up to the door.  Mission accomplished.  There's the door.  Time for step two, or is it three?  Open the door."

I stared at my hand as it rose, watching in fascinated horror as it began to tremble.  I scolded myself.  "Ignore it, Greg.  So you've got a little case of the shakes.  Who wouldn't, under the circumstances?  Just open the damn door."  I had to get my other hand going to join in the action, but I finally managed to get the door open.  Actually walking through it took another eternity to accomplish.

"Okay, good, you're in.  Now, you know where the lab is.  Shit.  At least, you know where it used to be."  Gentle self-persuasion was no longer cutting it.  I resorted to a little verbal abuse.  "Don't stand here like an idiot.  Get going!"  The air around me seemed to get thicker as I moved.  It was getting harder to breathe.  I felt my chest getting tighter and tighter, and forced myself to take a deeper breath.  That's when the smell hit me.  The smell of burning and charring and chemical smells that had no business being outside of the safe confines of some lab experiment under the fume hood instead of permeating the halls of the building.  Oh God!

Without consciously willing it my feet had taken me rapidly out of the building and into the parking lot where I quickly found a nice quiet corner to throw up in.  The only good thing is that I'd been too nervous to eat anything before I came in, so there really wasn't anything in my stomach to throw up.  After that little disaster, I tried to convince myself to head back into the building, but only made it as far as the door.  I ended up sitting on the curb, not quite willing to admit to defeat but not able to get myself to move beyond the door.

That's where Catherine found me when she arrived.  I guessed I must've looked pretty pitiful, sitting there on the curb with my knees pulled up to my chin and my arms wrapped around my legs, trying to hold myself together.  I knew that one comment from her would be all that it would take for me to totally lose it.  I guess Catherine knew it, too.  She started with a hesitant, "Welcome back."  

I didn't say anything in return.  I simply looked at her.  I guess she must've seen something in my eyes, must've read something between the lines, because she didn't say another word.  She gracefully sat down and joined me on the curb.  She raised a hand gently to my shoulder, mindful of my injuries.  I began to relax under the pressure of her hand, especially when it began a gentle massage.  I found myself letting go of the tension which had me wound tight enough to snap.

We both decided to break the silence at the same time:

"Hey, Greg. . ."

"Hey, Cath. . ."

I gave a snort of nervous laughter as Catherine smiled, graciously offering, "You first."

"Yeah, well, I'm really glad to see you."  I looked her straight in the eyes.  I needed to make sure that she knew that I meant every word of what I was saying.  "I wanted you to know something.  About the accident, that is.  I know that that's all it was: an accident.  It could have happened to anyone."  

I had to smile at the look on her face that shouted, "No way!" without a word being said.

"Well, okay, it was a once-in-a-lifetime impossible syzygy cosmic-type alignment of 'shit happens' and 'being in the wrong place at the wrong time', but still, it's not your fault.  It's not anyone's fault."  I sighed.  "It'd be easier if I could point my finger at someone to take the blame and have it over and done with."

Catherine still was treading carefully.  "So, do you want to tell me why you're sitting out here on this dusty curb instead inside in a nice comfy chair?"

I gave a nervous snort of laughter as I replied, "I'm contemplating life, the universe, and everything."  Before she could continue her interrogation, I made a vague gesture toward the entryway, and added, "Not to mention trying to figure out why the Hell I can't make myself walk through that door."

Catherine raised herself to her feet as she answered, "I know why."  

I looked up at her, my eyes conveying my hope and fear that she'd tell me either: A) "You're too chickenshit to do this job," or, B) "You're suffering from anxiety disorder bordering on a panic attack and need a nice long session with a psychologist, not to mention a new job."  

I liked her answer much better than either of mine.  Offering me a hand up, she stated, "You're waiting for me to walk in with you."

*****


	2. Part 2

It Becomes Necessary

By Beth Green

Part 2

*****

Now in my idea of a perfect world, my story would have ended with my little walk with Catherine.  "And he lived happily ever after is his nice new lab."  Unfortunately, this is my currently shitty life.  And the "nice new lab" is so far from being that that it keeps adding to my misery.  

Take my current frustration, for example.  The particular reagent for the test that I need to run has always been kept on the first shelf of the right-hand side cabinet.  However, it's not there.  Not only is the reagent not there, the goddamn cabinet isn't there anymore, either.  Nothing is where it should be.  The DNA/Chem Lab has been sandwiched in with the Bio lab.  The equipment is mostly second-hand stuff that we begged and borrowed from elsewhere until the new replacements come in.  Some of the equipment is special order and won't be available yet for weeks.

I've gone from being the king of my own domain to floundering around like a rookie his first week on the job.  I cannot find words to express how totally this sucks.  It's no wonder my hands shake like some old wino with the DTs.  And, to make my day complete, I lied to my boss.

Let me tell you about Gil Grissom.  As a criminalist, his skills are second to none.  His insights and observations and leaps of logic are a beautiful thing to behold.  Put him on a witness stand and the case is over, 'cause there's no way anyone can doubt that he's telling anying but the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.  However, when it comes to reading people, he tends to be totally clueless.

It was my bad luck that today he decided to start noticing the people around him.  Or, to be more specific, the person, being myself.  While making one of his "I want my evidence processed yesterday" visits to the lab, he noticed my hand shaking.  As soon as he commented on it, I gave a mental sigh of defeat.  *Busted.* He made me demonstrate that both of my hands are affected.  Then, he asked if I'd seen a doctor about it.

This is where the lie comes in.  I have seen enough doctors in the past week to last a lifetime, thank you very much.  The only doctor I haven't seen is a psychologist, and that's where I'd end up if I sought medical help for my nervous twitch.  Come on, how hard is it to diagnose a problem that only occurs when you're at work?  Despite everything, I'm not looking to find another job. And I'm shit-scared that a doctor would tell me that that's the only solution to my problem.  He might even insist on it.  I don't intend to find out.  So, it was surprisingly easy to lie right to Grissom's face and tell him that the doctor already knew about my tremors.

Now that I think about it, he was very un-Grissom-like.  The man actually tried to make me feel better about the whole thing by offering verbal reassurance.  He thinks it's only a temporary condition.  God, I hope he's right.  I don't know how much longer I can go on like this.  Maybe it's time to make use of the get well present I received from my friend, Freddie.

Oh, didn't I mention him before?  The man is a major hypochondriac.  He's got about a dozen different doctors he sees on a rotating basis.  Most of 'em don't know he's been seen by anyone else.  Anyway, he's got enough prescription medications on hand to open up his own drug store.  When I complained about the shakes, he kindly offered to share his unused stash of sedatives with me.  Feeling a bit desperate at the time, I took him up on his offer.

I haven't taken any. . .

. . . yet.

*****

~end      


End file.
